


Delusions of a Martyr

by shirotora-san (behindtintedglass)



Series: The Illusion of Exception [2]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: Gen, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-14
Updated: 2012-10-14
Packaged: 2017-11-16 07:34:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/537045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/behindtintedglass/pseuds/shirotora-san
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wilson knows House best, but not in the way everyone else thinks he does - and certainly not in the way House does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Delusions of a Martyr

They think they all know, but they don't.

House, especially.

The door of his office closes with a click. Wilson wearily shuffles towards his desk and eases himself onto his chair. His head falls into his hands, and his fingers massage his brows and temples briefly before he lets his hands drop to the table. Then with a resigned sigh, he pulls the stack of papers on his desk towards him. He leafs through them. He blows his hair out of his eyes, grabs a pen, and begins to work.

House believes he has Wilson all figured out. He has a desperate need to be needed. He constantly defies House's adamant belief that there's no such thing as an altruistic person by  _being_  one – and he's constantly abused because of it. That's why he has three failed marriages, why he changes girlfriends every other week (because they stop needing him then), and why – perhaps the best and worst example of all – he's the  _only_ friend of a misanthropic, caustic, manipulative bastard like House.

Wilson chuckles humorlessly. Well, perhaps he  _has_  proven House's point with the first two examples, but not with the third – not when it comes to  _him._  With all his brilliance as a world-famous diagnostician, House can't even diagnose his own best friend. Wilson takes comfort – and, admittedly,  _pride –_ in being the one puzzle House can't solve. Wilson is the one disease House can't cure – the kind that  _won't_ go away.

A smirk graces Wilson's lips.  _That_  surely annoys House to no end.

As his pen continues to move mechanically over the papers, a mental image of House suddenly comes to him, unbidden. In his mind, House is looking over his shoulder as he signs his name, tactlessly poking fun at his lousy handwriting by proclaiming he makes other doctors look like expert calligraphers. Wilson smiles, sincerely this time, and mentally yells at the imaginary-bastard to go decipher his hieroglyphics another time and leave him alone.

The smile fades. House would want that, wouldn't he?

The pen stops moving for a moment. Through the glass door of his office, Wilson can see the balcony that connects to House's office on the other side. The shadows prevent him from seeing any shape or movement, but he knows House has already gone home, long before his fellows have finished clearing up whatever mess their recent case has created. Shaking himself out of his distraction, Wilson drops his head and resumes his work.

People believe that House is the self-serving tyrant and that Wilson is the foolish martyr. The former is an addict and a masochist, while the latter is the enabler who willingly gives in to the said addict's twisted desire for pain. Wilson laughs bitterly. If he's being honest to himself, he actually believes House when he says there's no such thing as masochism and altruism – no matter how much people believe he and House are the perfect examples. It's because people don't know them at all. They don't know what only  _he_ knows.

His grip on the pen tightens; the dent his name is making on the paper deepens.

House isn't the one that's selfish.  _He_ is.

Wilson finishes signing, closes the folder, and adds it to his growing pile of finished paperwork. His eyes flicker briefly to the  _other_  pile, surveying the amount of work that still needs to be done, and he sighs when he realizes he won't be able to leave the hospital anytime soon. He presses his lips together and takes another folder.

It's funny how House taunts him for having an unrealistically romantic view of the world. House is adamant in his belief that the only reason Wilson has put up with him so far is because he's so damn needy. Wilson stands by him because he is attracted to House's pain, his weakness, his loneliness, his  _neediness._  House believes that the only thing he contributes into this screwed-up friendship of theirs is that he feeds Wilson's need to  _be_ needed.

It's amazing how, for someone so obsessed with irrefutable facts and knowledge, House can believe in such an outlandish  ** _lie_** _._

For someone who believes that the whole of humankind are worthless, self-serving idiots, House has fooled himself into believing that Wilson is an exception. He believes that Wilson will move heaven and earth for him because Wilson simply cares for him that much, and that is why Wilson will choose to stay with him no matter what. And that is also why House has deluded himself into believing that he brings nothing but misery to everyone he comes into contact with – and briefly Wilson contemplates whether this is also why House chooses  _not_  to see his patients – so he opts to push Wilson out of his life so Wilson won't be contaminated by this misery.

Wilson shakes his head. And House calls  _him_ the romantic one. People have gotten their roles mixed up.  _House_ is the foolish martyr. And  _Wilson_  is the self-serving tyrant, because the truth of the matter is that the one who's testing their friendship… is  _not_ House.

He yawns widely, breaking himself out of his concentration. He glances at the clock and he blinks when he realizes how late it is. His stomach growls in agreement, and he sighs as he suddenly remembers he hasn't eaten yet. He contemplates getting dinner, but finds he doesn't have the appetite for it. He mentally tells his stomach to keep it down and continues poring over the papers.

He remembers how, not so long ago, he would watch House from outside the hospital room where he was recovering from Moriarty's attack. The first bullet had penetrated his stomach; the second had penetrated his neck. And as he'd gaze at the fresh wounds, Wilson would wonder at the irony of how House was almost killed precisely becausehe had saved a life. He would wonder why, if House really hated people, House would risk everything to save them.

A nurse would then enter the room with a sponge and a basin of warm water in her hands. He'd watch her as she'd gently bathe House, and he'd see on House's body the marks left on him by his father. John House isn't a forgiving man; he doesn't tolerate failure, and neither does he hold back in his punishments. His son bears the evidence of his austerity – while by no means severe or numerous, the scars on Gregory House's body will forever be a reminder of the wounds his father has inflicted in his humanity.

And then there was the wound inflicted in his heart.

Wilson's eyes would travel towards the biggest scar on House's body, the one that runs more deeply than all of House's wounds combined. He hadn't seen House's leg since the infarction, even when they were living together – House had always been keen on hiding the scar. And as he'd watch House lying in that bed, pale and still and surrounded by tubes and beeping machines, he'd understand why. He'd be so overwhelmed by the sight of House so open and vulnerable that there were times he was tempted to take it upon himself to hide House's leg from view.

His gaze would then fall to the empty chair beside House's bed, where a cane occupied the spot where Stacy should be. Where  _he_ should be – where Cuddy, Foreman, Cameron and Chase should be. But Stacy was by Mark's side; Cuddy was tending to her administrative duties; House's fellows were busy working on a case without him. Even he wasn't supposed to be there. A cancer patient he was observing was in the next room, and it conveniently gave him an excuse to watch his best friend sleep his life away.

Wilson gets up and stretches his arms high above his head. He lets them drop to his sides as he paces around the office for awhile. He eyes the clutter of papers on his desk. Then he looks at door leading to the balcony. After a moment's hesitation, he pushes the door open and he is assaulted by the cold night air. He walks to the edge and leans his arms on the balcony wall. He stares into the distance, his face flashing in and out of darkness as headlights of passing cars illuminate it.

He was there when House finally opened his eyes after days spent in a chemically-induced coma. He was there when House smiled, weakly but genuinely, when he saw Wilson standing beside his bed. He was there when House asked in a hoarse voice if anybody died while he was taking a nap. He was there when House peered at his too-serious face and flatly asked him if he was experiencing a dry spell, because it was either that or he was constipated. And the worried crease on his brows had straightened, and the laughter induced by the Housian comment softened into a smile, as he could only shake his head at how House's first thought in waking up after a harrowing brush with death was to mock his best friend's lack of action in bed.

And in that moment, Dr. James Wilson saw the truth, the  _one_ truth that even the brilliant Dr. Gregory House didn't know, because it was the one truth the foolish martyr refused to see.

House… is  _strong._

Below him, a motorcycle speeds by, the engine roaring loudly in the silent night. Wilson smiles.

For all of his narcissism and egotistical attitude, it never occurs to House just how much of a hypocrite he is. Because if he really believes in all of his self-proclaimed greatness, House should have never taken offense whenever Wilson would go out of his way to protect him, to take care of him, to ensure he's safe. And Wilson isn't stupid enough to not know House  _does_ take offense, and neither is he stupid enough  _not_  to know why.

It's because he knows House's twisted psyche interprets his caring actions as an  _insult._ House sees it as pity, as alms and charitable acts to the poor and powerless – words and actions meant only for those who are  _weak._ And House can't accept that, will _never_ accept that, because House doesn't want to be weak – but for some reason, House  _believes_  he is.

How strange that House refuses to see that Wilson  _doesn't_ believe it.

Wilson tilts his head back and stares at the sky. The thick clouds and glaring city lights hide the stars from view, making the sky an endless sea of indigo velvet with a silver-blue globe floating in the middle. His gaze falls to his hands in front of him, awash in the silver-blue light of the moon, and dimly he notes how pale they look.

He has known House for a long time, far longer than Stacy and far better than House's parents. He has seen House fall many times, both literally and figuratively, both with and without the cane. And in most of those times, he has seen House pick himself up and stand proudly, and Wilson can't help but step back in awe and admiration. He isn't going to romanticize House and claim that he  _doesn't_ need anyone to help him up – the bastard is already insufferable enough without further inflating his already overblown ego – but for most of his life, House didn't  _have_  anyone who would've offered that kind of help anyway.

His father punished him. The love of his life left him. His patients hate him for being right. His colleagues hate him even more for the same reason. In many ways, House had  _always_ been alone, and had always fought his battles alone – and survived. The truth hits home whenever Wilson remembers the image of House in recovery after the attack: the wounds, the cane, the empty chair… and the way House still managed to open his eyes and smile and summon the energy and the wit to be the insufferable bastard he is.

House is stronger than anyone Wilson has ever known. Wilson doesn't pity him, can _never_ pity him – not when he's so damn  _proud_ of House.

His eyes return to the sky as he gazes at the moon. He suddenly realizes how stubborn it is, refusing to be overpowered both by the natural light of the stars surrounding it and by the artificial light of the streets below it. He shakes his head and smiles as he realizes that the way he is being drawn to the strange allure and power of the lonely moon is wistfully familiar.

All of his life he had been needed. His family needed him to be a doting son and caring brother; his friends needed him to be their faithful companion; his lovers needed him to be their emotional refuge; his patients needed him to be their pillar of strength; society needed him to be a good man. All his life he needed to be useful and have a purpose in order to gain some semblance of meaning in what he does and who he is. James Wilson was a nobody if he wasn't needed.

And then House came in his life, unbidden, and suddenly Wilson found himself utterly _useless_ in the presence of such power and strength. This dastardly son-of-a-bitch doesn't  _need_  anyone – and yet strangely,  _strangely…_  he is drawn to Wilson. And Wilson doesn't understand that. He has already proven so many times that the things he does for House – those he believes House  _needs –_ become utterly useless in the end or, when he's unlucky, make the situation worse. He can't offer House what he needs, he can't even  _be_ someone House needs, and yet… House  _does_  need him. It's crazy, it's illogical, it's mind-boggling… and so utterly  _liberating._

With House, Wilson doesn't need to be a good man. He doesn't need to be a good family man or a good doctor. He doesn't even need to be a good friend, and God knows how much he has already flunked in that department. With House, Wilson doesn't need to  _be_ someone. He doesn't need to be needed. Wilson can just…  _be._

A loud honking jerks his gaze away from the sky and into the street below him. A speeding taxi had hit the car in front of him, and the two drivers are engaged on a heated debate as they step out of their vehicles, causing traffic to pile up behind them. Wilson sighs.

He knows he's being selfish. He knows that he has no right to be by House's side because he knows he's useless and he  _knows_ he's hurting House more by refusing to let him push him away. But he knows he has to be with House… he  _needs_  this… because he has to know that no matter what lies ahead or who comes between them, House will always be strong enough for both of them.

A cloud passes over the moon. Standing alone in the balcony, Wilson suddenly finds himself surrounded by darkness.

He knows though. He knows that every human being has a limit. And he knows House isn't an exception. Someday, perhaps, House will finally need him. And Wilson knows in his mind, in his heart, in his soul, in every fiber of his being, that he can never turn House away, not when he has already become the most important person in his life.

But then again, he is hoping that time will never come. Because he knows that when House begins needing him, Wilson will stop needing House.

Wilson finally pushes himself off the balcony wall and walks determinedly back towards his office. There's still a lot of work left to do.

 


End file.
